I'm often asked about my culinary days...people seem really curious as to what it was like and of course with the popularity of this show,I'm always aksed whether or not the industry is similar. My short answer is yes and no - culinary school is very much like Top Chef, whereas working in a kitchen is just sometimes like that. I was fortunate to work in a very well-run restaurant with chefs who practiced mutual respect. I've heard many horror stories however, so my restaurant experience was fortunately very positive.
I'll start with school. I attended a weekend program at a college outside Boston while I worked a 40 hour workweek. I was in my late twenties/early 30s, working fulltime, living in a city away from home and having a bit of a slump in the dating department...I was tired of spending my weekends waiting for the phone to ring and thought, hey, now's the time to do things I've always dreamed of doing - like learn to cook really well. Though I always thought I'd go to law school, my creative urges told me to try culinary first - if I didn't like it, I could always become a lawyer later on. What happened is eventually I got sick, but we'll get to that part later.
So I applied. And got in (nearly everyone does). And started my pre-req courses in nutrition and food sanitation. Before long I became certified and was able to start the hands-on courses. I believe that first class was American Cuisine. In uniform, knife-kit in tow, I happily arrived early that Saturday morning (7:00 am sharp), eager to meet our chef professor and some fellow students. We began the day with a tour of the kitchen and moved on to basic knife skills. One of the easiest ways to tell if a "chef" has been professionally trained is by how they use their knife - it's a dead giveaway. And yes, many, many celebrity "chefs" you see on television obviously have never been taught proper (or safe) cutting techniques (makes you wonder what else they failed to learn). But back to the class - we were cutting vegetables learning our dices and julienne and there were cutting boards and knives and novices everywhere. By the end of the day I had cut myself and badly - some idiot (he never grew on me) left his knife edge sticking straight in the air on my table while he left to wash his hands. While working and reaching for something (whatever it was escapes me), the back of my hand came down on it and I sliced up my middle finger quite deeply. Blood was everywhere. I should've gone to the ER, but at the time blamed myself for carelessness and didn't want to draw this kind of attention on my first day so I kept a smile on my face and a lot of pressure on my hand. And yes, to this day I still have the scar.
As we progressed in our classes, the chefs continued to put more and more pressure on us. Each school day was spent with a morning lecture, a break, then we'd form teams and begin our prep for cooking for the day. This part is eerily similar to Top Chef - we'd be given assignments and a stringent time frame - some of the expectations were nothing short of ridiculous. Early on, my professors figured out I had some leadership skills - inevitably, I was always in charge of a team. This began to wear on me as I had come to school to learn to cook - I already knew how to lead teams. That quality, I was assured, is what makes a great chef - the told me that kitchens the world over are in need of someone with my skills, and that if I kept pressing along, the food knowledge would come. So I pressed along. And every Saturday was nothing short of kitchen boot camp, with the clock ticking and chefs yelling in your ear that you're mixing this wrong or you cut your onion wrong or why are you letting one of your team members burn his gratin? It was loud and messy and dangerous - I burned myself often - but I loved it.
Toward the end of each cooking day, the bell would ring and we'd hear UTENSILS DOWN! and have about 30 seconds to bring our dishes to the table for presentation to all of the school's top chef professors. We'd stand there as we were publicly critiqued, and it was harsh. As the leader I was always ultimately responsible and would often have to explain why things went wrong and - the ugly part - gently, diplomatically find a way to save all our asses. Which only worked some of the time, because even though there were days we churned out some amazing food, sometimes we screwed up (we were students) and the obvious (oversalting, burning) could not be explained away. Even when the dishes were spectacular and we knew we hit it right, the professors would always focus on the negative, bitching about the choice of garnish or the color of this or that and yes, that stuff is important, but sometimes it would have been nice to hear some encouragement. My theory is that culinary schools try to emulate real-life where you have less-than-ideal conditions and crazy customers who'll hate the best of what you have to offer - if you're sensitive and can't handle the heat, well, so the saying goes. I suppose it's better to learn that you're not cut out for it earlier than later. Sometimes students would cry - other times they'd just walk out. You'd hear teams fighting amongst themselves all the time. There were moments when the whole situation really felt like abuse and I'd think gawd, I really don't need this. And then I'd overcome it and manage to put together something fabulous and see the hint of a smile on a professor and it was all good.
After that we'd clean up and pack up the leftover food for a local shelter. I'd get home around 6pm.
At some point one of my friends at school had scored a job working for this man. Did I want in? DUH! But it would have to be parttime. I interviewed and got a job working garde manger and desserts. It was crazy. And fun. And I learned so, so much there. I only got to actually work with Todd a few times, and it was humbling. He really understands cooking and kitchens - this place was incredibly well-run. I really hit it off with the head chef who was all about helping me to learn more. He'd let me jump on the pans when it got busy. Before long I was creating my own specials. Now and then I'd be asked to go greet a table who was especially complimentary about my cooking. They'd call me "Chef" and I'd snort and giggle like a school-girl. Me?? Chef?? Hah! But I suppose it wasn't too far from the truth - I mean, I was doing it. When I wasn't working, I'd get invited to visit this restaurant or that; my friends were making friends who worked in high places who would lay out the red carpet with comped meals that were beyond amazing - if you cooked, you were treated like royalty by the kitchen. I'd go out to these chi chi venues and eat gourmet meals for free while we chatted about all things culinary and who was going where. I was meeting some very cool people. It was very exciting and I loved being part of it all. I could actually see this becoming my life. But I was getting tired. Really, really tired. My stringent schedule was starting to run me down.
At school I was maintaining a perfect 4.0 - in the running for valedictorian of our class, until Garde Manger. The DREADED Garde Manger - notoriously, the toughest class to pass. Once again, I was the leader, working hard during our final - at some point I botched the hardboiled eggs - any trace of green (sulfur) is a huge NO NO and signals improper boiling. And so it happened that my perfect GPA was marred by a B+. Because of one little bad egg. I had covered it with some nice osetra but the head chef knew all of our tricks and I got snagged. And I took it hard -
stupidly hard. So when my hematologist read me the riot act and urged me to start deleting activities from my 24/7 schedule, school was the first to go. I could always go back, I told myself, and didn't register for spring classes. Around that time, I was asked to be the apprentice to Todd's head pastry chef who ran the kitchen which churned out desserts for all of his restaurants. The pay was lousy, but the opportunity was spectacular. It made me feel light as air as I considered leaving my insurance job to pursue the dream. Just having the option made me so happy - it meant I could do it. I really could. I began looking at my finances to see how I could manage a transition away from my safe insurance job to one that challenged me creatively and exposed me more to a community I was growing to love.
Maybe it was a day or two later after that offer - I can't really remember - I woke up one morning with black urine. Later that day I doubled over during a presentation. I couldn't breathe right. And I was so dizzy I was afraid to drive. Something was wrong. Really wrong. Later that night, I landed in the hospital with severe dehydration. And stayed for a few days. And the hematologist warned me that though my attitude in the face of disease was admirable, denying the fact that I was sick would just make me sicker. And at that point I was too sick to argue...plus, he was right. After spending a week recovering from the PNH episode, I made the agonizing decision to leave the restaurant and just continue on with insurance - being sick, I needed the medical benefits and sitting at a computer all day isn't nearly as taxing on one's body as is standing and moving. My cooking friends were saddened and I cried a lot. But I had learned great things. And had some great times.
Not long after that I met S. And I learned that I could be happy cooking for him. And perhaps, one day, for a family.
And here I am. But I think about those culinary days a lot, and often wonder. Wonder what if - what if I was able to take the leap? And make it work? Where would I be now? Perhaps someplace fabulous, perhaps not. But it's nice to think about it, and it's nice to know that there was a time that I was indeed good enough - a contender.
